One Sweet Day and other atrocities
by cheney
Summary: Nice, angry, angsty story. Christian is haunted by a song...many people say "It's not like any of the others!" but for me, I assure you, it really is NOT like any of the others. Not at all. You were warned.


Disclaimers, yadda yadda yadda: I own nothing, sorry. Even if I did, you couldn't come and steal it because the doors get locked at night…not MY doing, I assure you. This is plotless nonsense, written only because I have people who enjoy hearing the mundane details of my life and I find it easier to write in the third person, delegating all things that happen to me to someone else.

**12:52 am**

Christian thought, quite certainly, that he was going to kill something, or at least hurt it quite badly. There was no one reason – no, that would have been far too simple – but there were a number of very small, insignificant reasons that intruded upon his consciousness and made him feel very irritable and scary-like, indeed.

            He could have blamed it on a number of things – the lack of Sobe, for one – the incessant music (yes, he wanted very much to blame it on the incessant music, and he felt that to do so would have been quite correct), and the Foreboding And Very Intimidating Earth Science Exam that was hovering over his head.

            With disgust he shooed it away, and sent the squiggly green lines along with it. Stupid, selfish little lines, thought they knew everything, didn't know a thing, it wasn't a run on sentence, if it was a run on sentence (Christian thought) I will TELL you it is a run on sentence and not until then will you dare oppose me or question my knowledge.

            "Ah, that was a run on sentence," he observed, and decided he didn't much care.

            He retreated to the notebook (trying unsuccessfully to block out the music, blast if he wasn't going to throw that CD player off a balcony somewhere) and was immediately horrified. Surely he'd known more than this. He'd known more than this yesterday…or so he thought…he could have been wrong…oh, he was going to be wrong, all right…)

            "How," he finally asked the author, "Did I end up as the main character of your little tirade?"

            "I'm working on that," she said. "I'm also working on finding a word for this thing I do with characters taking my place. This cathartic process…surely there's a name for it."

            "Perhaps you should worry more about the names of volcanoes," he pointed out.

            "And all sorts of rocks and minerals. And I study better – if I knew how to study at all – alone, and with silence…but, I was putting you in my place. So that's all true for you, and I have no worries in the world. No," she insisted. "None at all."

            "Nice," he mumbled, thinking it really wasn't, not at all.

            Anyhow. Christian was murderous, and thinking quite certainly that he was going to kill something. It was violent, yes. It was also unavoidable. He glanced around for a stray ostrich to strangle, some not-so-innocent evil demonic bird, or maybe one of its friends…yes, that would be nice.

            Or that irritating Doctor Cheney Duvall. No, not that one. The irritating one. The one Christian wanted to kill. The one that…

            "Are you feeling murderous?" she spoke, appearing out of nowhere.

            "Yes," he retorted. "Yes, I am."     

            "Me too. I'm feeling murderous too. I am as well, yes."

            "HOLY SHNEIKIES!" Christian suddenly exclaimed, unsure of the proper spelling and too irritated to worry about it. "Good BOB, child, if they were going to take anything – and oh horrors, Cedarville – don't you think they'd head for my bloody laptop first? Who the curd CARES if the door is locked…I just…GRR. Point one," he began pacing around the room, talking to himself, "this is Cedarville. Enough said. Point two, there are two locked doors AT THE LEAST between our hall and the outside. Point three, every other door has an alarm on it. Point four, this is still Cedarville. Point five…I don't even lock my bloody door at home. Point six, can we say FIRE? Point seven, the laptop. Oh, I'm a thief, come to rob you blind! Not only would I WAKE UP but if they had ANY common sense at all they would NOT go for jewelry and certainly not CDs (and if they went for CDs they would go for my extensive collection) but I should think they would go for the more lucrative items such as stereos, laptops, computers, and broken digital cameras – for they wouldn't know that you see – instead of some pointless knick knacks…I mean, it's just not economical.

            In addition to that they'd have to get back out without waking anyone up or running into anybody. And any thief who can do that deserves what he stole, I say."

            "That's what you think?" Claire tentatively asked.

            "THAT'S what I THINK," he said emphatically.

            And as soon as the opportunity presented itself, he turned off all the lights, opened all the windows, and went to sleep.

**7:23 am**

            He remained cheerfully in a coma until the ungodly hour of…well, he didn't know what, which showed precisely what a dreadful hour it was. But the sky was still a pale gray outside, an indication that no decent human being should be awake.

            Slowly he pondered what had awakened him, and what time it was, and he came to the realization that the two did not match up, not quite. The alarm was set for nine. Nine o'clock, to the best of his knowledge, was not such an ugly, early-looking time as this one he had been unwillingly tossed into. It took another moment of speculation for Christian to discover the reason he was pondering all this, in what was practically the middle of the night, was due to the fact that there was music.

            Always the music…

            And your music stinks, he thought, having tried remain slightly friendly and finding it very difficult. He entertained the thought of shouting "SHUT UP!" but wasn't sure how to form the words, and even in his lethargic state feared there may be some consequences to yelling them. At least, the last time he had sleepily yelled "SHUT UP!" no good had resulted. Granted, a college roommate and one's father did not hold the same authority, but better to remain silent, he thought.

            It had to be the next room. The music, he realized, was probably coming from the next room, and filtering in through the open window, thus rudely waking him up. He leaned up to see if it intensified when he got closer to the window – oh, well, no. The music was most definitely coming from inside the room.

            _"And I know you're shining down on me from heaven, like so many friends we've lost along the way…"_

We're going to lose another if you don't turn that bloody thing off, he thought furiously. Mariah Carey. Nice little R&B poppy thing going on there. Grrrr. Death. Death. Death.

            Am I invisible? Hello? Remember me, my bed is the reason you can't see the ceiling? I live here, remember? And I don't ever have to get up as early as you. Um…there's music on. Do you hear that music? It's waking me up, and it's making me want to kill people. I think that must make it sinful. I think it breaks music code. Yes, I want to hurt someone now, and don't think that stereo will be intact when you get home…

            Unless it's my stereo. The thought was terrifying. But the fact remained that Christian's was the only alarm that went off with music. Was it possible that he had managed to sleep through his roommate's Blaring Alarm Clock of Death and yet awakened to this music? Unless…

Had some evil, unseen force snuck in and swapped the CDs while they were sleeping? (Oh yes, that's why we must lock the doors, he thought sarcastically). Or had…someone or something else set his alarm…differently?

            "WA-NA-NAAAAA," Rob was the dramatic music.

            "Impossible," he said, or actually he didn't say it, not aloud, because the other occupants of the room, namely one, thought he was somehow still asleep. "Only I know how to work it, and besides, frogs don't use stereos."

            Oh, that Something Else.

            "He's dead anyhow."

            That's right. My mistake.

            The author returned to the job of narrating the story. Or lack thereof.

            Christian slowly thought back over the conclusions he had drawn. First, someone was playing music, in the room, and he was trying to sleep. Secondly, it wasn't his stereo. Thirdly, it was really annoying music. Fourthly, the person DID have headphones that needed to be put to use.

            For the love of moss covered bean wax, he thought angrily, I like music too, but there ARE SACRIFICES that have to be made…

            Apparently not. The CD cheerfully continued on its merry way for three or four more songs, maybe more, maybe less (they all sounded the same and were all keeping him awake equally) and finally came to an end. He heard a sound not unlike that of a door shutting, and there was glorious silence.

            Rather incredulous at the poor etiquette involved in the events that had just transpired, Christian fell back asleep, welcomed by disturbing dreams about flaming cars flying down the off-ramp of Rt. 23.

**9:15 am**

            He contemplated ironing for a brief moment, and noticed upon picking up the iron that it was already turned on.

            He had turned it off last time, he was fairly certain.

            This was clever. This was unspeakably clever. Let's whine about not being able to lock the doors and then leave the bloody iron turned on…yes, Christian thought vehemently, I know the first thing I want to do when our room is consumed by flames is try and find the blasted lock…

**3:16 pm**

First one back got control of the stereo, or so he decided upon realizing he was the first one back. Besides that, it was his stereo. It wasn't so much that he had a yearning to listen to something as it was the principle of the thing – and so Christian loaded up the stereo with a selection of decidedly not country music. 

There was such satisfaction in doing this that it was scary. The evening stretched before him – no obligations, no real homework. A reflection on a class to write – no problem at all. It was a chance to get graded on what he would end up doing anyway, rambling about the day's events. Earth Science exam was over. Foundations exam returned with a better grade than he'd expected – a C – considering the professor was said to be on academic probation for failing so many students. The friend he'd talked to had gotten a D minus. Christian felt content with the C. PACL exam back, 44 out of 50. Not bad, not bad…

He was an experienced procrastinator. Some are blessed with the gift of intelligence, some are blessed with not only that intelligence with which to make the assignments easy but also the discernment to have enough confidence in the intelligence so that one can properly waste time. He was good at wasting time, good at not needing as much time as was typically required by the average student, and good at judging the difference between the two.

So there was little to do and quite a bit of time until he had anywhere to be at all. And (however malicious it was) it gave him great joy to be so unobligated at the moment. It would all catch up eventually, at the moment his roommate was drowning under schoolwork and he was sitting at his desk, wishing Internet Explorer was working and typing away at nothing of consequence.

It made him feel rather paranoid and guilty. So much, in fact, that he decided to read a thrilling chapter about social science, found it boring, and quit after about three pages.

            __


End file.
